


2075: Mission

by Remenyke



Category: Blade Runner (Movies), Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Blood and Gore, Blood and Violence, Canon-Typical Violence, Crossover, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Dystopia, Eggsy may appear if there's a sequel to this, Eye Trauma, Gen, Harry kicking ass and taking names, Merlin is the best, Minor Character Death, Mission Fic, Not Beta Read, Not Britpicked, Science Fiction, Threats of Violence, Torture, hear that?, there's the big disclaimer there already, trigger warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-29
Updated: 2017-10-29
Packaged: 2019-01-26 02:06:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12546420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Remenyke/pseuds/Remenyke
Summary: “Mission log 2075, September 16. Time check, 0546 hours. District East Alton, floor 102, unit 6043. Agent Galahad, mission is a go.”





	2075: Mission

**Author's Note:**

> Unbetaed and not Brit-picked. I watched Blade Runner 2049 and caught the little insane plotbunny in the shower; an idea to mash Kingsman into that wonderfully beautiful and horrible universe Agent K left behind. I just really need to get this story out of my head sO I CAN ACTUALLY DO MY VERY IMPORTANT SCHOOL WORK DAMN
> 
> It's also been super duper long since I last wrote anything non-academic.
> 
> There’s a whee bit of spoilers for Blade Runner 2049. It’s not massive, just well. If you’re particular, watch that first before reading this. There are references to: Black Out 2022, Nexus Dawn 2036, and 2048: Nowhere to Run. Not as much from the last one, but it’s still a great short.
> 
> Interest check! I did write more plot in a long word splurge, but I can’t actually write the story for the next month or so because the aforementioned schoolwork is killing me. 
> 
> Tell me if this is a thing that might work?

“Fuck off, skin job!”

Harry casted a brief glance at the man screaming down at him from the cramped apartment stacked above tunneled passageway. He noted the half-burnt joint pinched between two bloated fingers – a semi-luxury item in the district, not likely sacrificed in his prejudiced posturing – and dismissed the probability of being hit as he passed beneath the man’s narrow balcony.

He wished he could send a discreet dart up to the rude fellow and watch him topple down the five storey drop to an inglorious death. Too bad he spied faces turning in the shadowed floors above, curious and wary of an officer’s presence in the area. Soon, other supremacists would join in.

 _“Charming way to start the day,”_ Merlin murmured in his ear.

“Don’t we all wish to start the day blissfully high,” Harry sighed. He resisted the urge to lengthen his carefully measured steps into his more typical casual stroll. His cover as a quintessential Replicant agent of the New Scotland Yard with a matching uniform, perfectly reactive holographic face, and regrettably restrained set of trained movements demanded severe curbs to his usual flair. He could nearly imagine Merlin derisively snorting at his dramatics.

“The fuc’ you ‘ere for? Eh, skin job?” Another, a woman this time, hollered from further up the residential block. Harry sent another surveying look upwards and mentally marked another non-hostile.

The short walk to his destination was shaping up to be a test against his cultivated patience.

 “Do help plead my case when I request Morgana to remove the forbearance part of any aptitude tests in my future,” Harry muttered under his breath to the sensitive microphones. “You knew Kay was more comfortable with this district.”

 _“I’ll see what I can do,”_ Merlin replied non-committal, already distracted with one thing or another at his busy work station. _“Looks like Arthur’s illicit orders came through.”_

“You mean the ones for furnishings?”

 _“Wood furnishings, Harry,”_ Merlin chided. Harry thought for a techie, the man had an unnaturally high regard for too-expensive biodegradables. _“Good lord, the ones he ordered to be delivered came with hairline fractures from the high-altitude transport. Arthur’s been losing his shit over the ‘severely damaged goods’.”_

“Well what did he expect from wooden antiques pilfered from dead lands?”

_“He’s blaming it on transit. Making them pay for another excavation run.”_

Harry hummed. “And he’s keeping the ones that are already delivered to the shops.”

 _“And he’s keeping the ones already delivered,”_ Merlin confirms with a wearied sigh. _“It is a sound strategy considering how those excavations are draining budget that could be better used for our operations.”_

The costs of transporting and decontaminating material from radiated, unlivable old cities were astronomical, even for the relatively wealthy Kingsman. Not to mention the unholy tax imposed on cross-regional sales.

“The savings have to come out _somewhere_ ,” Harry pointed out. Far be it for the head of a spy organisation to lie and coerce for the good of its finance department. The occasional show of Chester King’s Scrooge-like, ungenerous behaviour has its use.

Harry made a turn at the appropriate intersection as per the directions he memorised in his Spinner vehicle, as equally counterfeit as his cover’s costume. That is, not at all.

The cover was fronted by an actual agent in the force who takes occasional sabbaticals for maintenance checks at a lesser known, experimental subsidiary of Wallace Corp. Said subsidiary was the biotechnical arm of Saville Row conglomerate that churned out inexpensive, tech-compatible Replicants for government bodies in the European region.

As a major player and puppet master of Saville Row, Kingsman could easily pull officers out of rotation through spot checks and drop an agent off with nearly foolproof and easily overlooked covers. They could even offer immediate retirements and replacements should covers be blown.

Aside from the holographic visage Harry wears with his glasses, every piece of his cover’s uniform, weapons, and transport vehicle were genuine articles. The clothes were somewhat ill-fitting, but nearly all clothes aside from his usual bespoke, were. Outsiders would see nothing out of the ordinary in a NSY police officer dressed and outfitted with the easily recognisable Blade Runner paraphernalia. They were just not his only equipment.

The weaponised wristwatch, charged ring and little canister at the small of his back, for example, were a non-standard equipment for one of these wet jobs.

Harry entered a crude climbing elevator that ran up a shaft built for an older, machine-reliant model hoisted by belts. An overlooked remnant of stop-gap measures post-Black Out. Harry eyed the subtly sparking engine cranking to pull the carriage upwards. The cargo-sized lift screeched as it scrapped by warped sections of the shaft.

_“That sounds worrying.”_

“Do me a favour. Laugh in my stead if this, of all things, ends my 30-year service record.”

Merlin chuckled, _“Noted, Harry."_

Lucky for his record, the elevator stops and deposits him at the right level. Harry resolved to find another egress to the bottom level even as he slip into the blank-faced focus of a mission-minded agent. 

The hologram disguise faded as his glasses began filling his view with little streaks of a stripped-down HUD, faint blotches of colour indicating living bodies occupying spaces behind alternating thick and thin walls. Little points of light guided his way through the convoluted corridors to his mark’s living space.

_“Mission log 2075, September 16. Time check, 0546 hours. District East Alton, floor 102, unit 6043. Agent Galahad, mission is a go.”_

Harry nodded, pulling and releasing the smooth length of a garroting wire from its niche in his watch as a final precautious check for snags. He slipped his fingers around a Carnwennan pistol.

A swipe of a master key card deactivated the lock on the door with a muted beep. Harry swiftly jerked the door open and slipped in, barrel-first to clear the immediate path. It was not a quiet entrance. No doubt his presence had been noticed. 

He leaned back against the door to shut out the warmer outside air, alert for any sounds in the apartment. His breaths were controlled, barely audible above the whirl of air conditioning and the frantic, but light gasps of his mark.

There, nearly covered behind a counterfeit painting, was a small gap in the wall separating the kitchen and the hallway. He took a calculated step forward, his gun levelled at the hole-

And immediately had his gun shot out of his grip by a sensor-triggered armament. He flung himself back against the narrow safe zone right before the door and ducked to roll past the targeted block. His backup pistol was in hand by the time he made the corner of an adjacent wall.

Well-earned instincts had him firing around the bend as he uncoiled to launch himself at the mark, simultaneously ducking the gun she held at eye-level and catching her in the thigh with a bullet. Harry tackled the woman around the waist, stoically bearing the reflexive pistol-whipping she drove at his head. She shrieked when he punched her in her leg wound in retaliation and fired another shot into her hip.

Harry took advantage of the onslaught on her pain receptors to smash her uncoordinated, flailing gun hand to the floor. Her wrist snapped and the offending weapon skidded away into the darkness of the kitchen. He quickly fired another shot into her left lung to keep her down. 

“That’s quite enough of you,” Harry huffed, sitting back on her tensed legs to keep her largely immobile. A frantically swinging fist caught him in the mouth before he pulled it aside with a firm grip. A quick twist had the mark’s remaining good arm dislocated at the shoulder, then a quick strike with the butt of his pistol ensured it broke and bent at the elbow.

Harry huffed, dropping the limb to splay at the screaming woman’s side and surveyed the incapacitated thing for any more weapons. He pulled a poorly sheathed blade from her belt and tossed it aside. “Is that all, Miss Everlott?”

Harry watched, apathetic, as she kept on her ear-shredding caterwauling for a minute. The unholy cries died off in a series of pained whines and gurgled insults as her lung filled. He waited as that abated.

“Is that all, Miss Everlott?”

She finally meets Harry’s gaze with fear-stricken eyes, gasping and making hurt noises. Her slight frame trembled beneath his weight.

“Good. Now I find it polite to inform people of their transgressions so they fully appreciate the punishments doled out for those crimes,” Harry patiently recited, “Human- no, children trafficking; sale of organs, willfully taken from the same unsuspecting children; sabotage of stocks and inventory of competitors to ensure your network and connections were the only ones supplying extra-addictive stimulants from the period of May to August. I hear the last one was extremely lucrative for your boys down at West Alton, hm? Artificially inflated to three or four times the usual market rates for your newly inducted clients who are unable to find similarly contaminated drugs from competitors.

“That’s an awful criminal record that some might say, you deserve to die for, Miss Everlott,” Harry finished, tapping the weakly lurching arm – still attached to a perfectly good elbow and shoulder. “Anything to say in your own defense?”

There was a little anger and hate in those eyes now. She glared at Harry and at the brand over the breast of his uniform and spat at his face, “Fucking filthy skinjob! Y' got the wrong fucking target! I’m not a Rep!”

Harry swiped a sleeve over the spittle splattered on his chin and pursed his lips. He retrieved a verification device from an inner pocket. “I assure you that your assumption that Blade Runners only terminate Replicants is entirely false." 

Unfamiliarity or pure terror made Everlott struggle, yowling about human rights or some such. Harry held up the softly whining gadget to her face, grabbing Everlott around her jaw to keep her still as she tried to turn away. Alarm glued her attention to the unknown device aimed at the delicately vulnerable features of her face. The device beeped.

“Well then,” Harry remarked lightly, turning to show her the display screen. “Looks like you _are_ a Nexus-8 model who deserted the military at Calantha.”

“No, I’m not!” Everlott screeched, predictably smacking at the dense body sitting on her only slightly damaged arm. Harry batted away the appendage, then shifted to pin the hand of her grotesquely twisted arm beneath a knee. Everlott howled. He considered snapping the better arm, but he would much rather not endure bouts of fearful pleading that total incapacitation usually drove marks to. Angry denial is much more satisfying to end than gibberish, distressed wetting. “I don’t know what the fuck that is! I’m not a fucking Rep! I’m a human, born and raised!”

“I’m glad you think so, Miss Everlott,” Harry smiled pleasantly at her, tucking the gadget back in his coat. He leaned to retrieve the gun he set down by his knee. “Memory implants have come such a long way since the Black Out. Now, hold still-”

“No! No, I’m not! I’m not! Please!” 

Harry was getting annoyed with her interruptions. He set the muzzle against her chest. “Would you rather I dug out your eyes while you can still see through them, then?”

Everlott stilled, tears streaming down reddened, stricken orbs. Pain and dismay twisted what would have been a pretty face into an open-mouthed rictus. Drool trickled down the sides of her cheeks. She said nothing.

Harry smiled genially. “We’re in agreement, then.”

A weak hand seized around his gun hand. “I could- I could get you to the cells. To the U-uniReps.”

Harry paused, brows raised in genuine surprise.

 _“Huh. She spent a while in the Underground for her business. Not inconceivable she would bump into Union Replicants,”_ Merlin muttered. _“We need more information.”_

 “Side trade with the cells are part of your business?” Harry prompted.

“M-maybe.” Harry wrenched at her free hand, twisting at her broken wrist. “YES! Yes! I trade with them!”

“What do you trade, Miss Everlott?”

“Food! Cl-clothes! Fake IDs, fake eyes for their missing right ‘uns!” Everlott’s frantic eyes were quickly crossing into manic. Her voice was breathy as she proposed, “I could ge-get you the whole set. Get you a-away, yeah? Set you up some place nice an’ warm. N-no more police and retiremen’, yeah?”

“You’ve personally met them for transaction,” Harry observed, tilting his head. “And where do these trades take place?”

“Rochester! I don’ know where! Random spo’s the leaders call us to a’ their convenience. They do send offs at Allhallows! Coul’ get you anywhere you wanna go!”

“Ah, where they leave for mainland,” Harry considered the information, “Is there anything else you would like to add?”

Everlott’s pale face whitened at the realisation that Harry was not a sympathiser to the cause. "You're not..."

“No? Then, thank you very much for your information, Miss Everlott,” Harry promptly suppressed the trigger of his Carnwennan to release the shot aimed at her heart. Harry rose from his crouch as she gurgled her last, in time to avoid the quickly spreading piss seeping through her slacks. A faint stench of excrement rose from the cooling corpse.

Harry had long accepted messes as part and parcel of the job.

“Merlin?”

 _“Well that was unexpected, but yes, it confirms old intel retrieved from Percival’s run-in with that one-eyed Nexus-8 in Cardiff.”_ Merlin sounded distracted, possibly busy cross-referencing the known database of potential drop-points the Union Replicants have been adopting across the country. _“We might need to add a new protocol to interrogate black-market traders for more of such gems…”_

Harry hummed an acknowledgement, unlatching the canister on his belt to crack it open. He set the empty lid aside and unsheathed a partially bladed scoop as he knelt by Everlott’s head.

He turned her sideway to drain any potential spills, then shoved the scoop beneath her open eyelid. Harry gave the scoop a twist and the entire orb and sliced stem came falling out in a neat bundle. He emptied the ladle in the upturned lid and went for her other eye.

Deed done, Harry dropped the scoop over the two eyeballs and tilted the head to face the ceiling.

He then pointed the empty canister the right side down to empty its contents into the body’s left eye cavity. A thick, gelatinous substance sunk deep into the hole, followed by a fleshy, wriggling attachment dropping into the empty socket stem-first. The live eye implant slurped its way into place, it's mobile stem ingratiating with the muscle and brain matter within.

It would complete installation firmly in the cavity long after its accompanying amniotic fluid – inseminated nano gel – complete healing the surface wounds around its insertion site. Nicks to the eyelids and socket were inevitable around the delicate, soft matter of faces, unfortunately.

Harry brushed his knees as he got up, picking up the full lid to dump the eyeballs down a waste disposal chute where it would be incinerated so it would not incriminate the circumstances of Everlott’s death. It would not do for authorities to find perfectly flawed human eyes matched to the body when they do come and clean up the putrefied body a week from now from neighbours’ complaints.

As he watched, her body’s new eye rolled into position and stilled. The brown orb still glimmered, fresh and alive, blank as all Replicants seem at birth. With no living host to keep it fed with nutrients, the reactivated piece would starve itself to a natural death within an hour of its successful implantation.

It was not a new sample. Those could be easily registered by age and versions encoded deep in its tissues. No, this implant was one half of a matching pair harvested from a Nexus-8 retired years ago. Its matching right eye was sitting at HQ in preparation for release to nosy authorities when they went hunting.

James thought it was ghastly to harvest used components. Harry was of the opinion that the defunct piece had at least had one last use after expiration, unlike most fragile specimen of natural-born humans.

Harry canted a look at the body, noting the spills of blood, pooling urine and fecal-matter. The cringe in her shoulders, the stiff tension in her twisted arms. Still human, still emotively struggling with the pull of its inevitable mortality.

It would fade with time. Replicants and humans rot the same way if left unattended.

Harry pictured the corpse losing its expressive death throes. In just a few days, the little, fragile corpse that was Everlott would become indistinguishable from the retired army drone, “Regis” NX-8.42-56.

Harry sometimes indulged in a little moment of perverse satisfaction in completing the grievously profane acts that destroy the saint-like image humans liked to claim of their natural-born state.

There was an irony in how simply a natural-born could be made to assume the identity of a manufactured Replicant, the same way it has been for Replicants created to assume human identities and function since the first successful inception nearly sixty years prior. 

 _"Galahad,"_ the voice in his ear called out.

Harry tilted his head, humming a questioning note. No one was in his vicinity to hear.

_“You are to return to base. Something came up.”_

Harry paused. Merlin’s tight cadence was never good to hear. “ ’Something’ came up?”

_“It’s about the 2052 runaway 10R debacle. Lee’s case.”_

“Oh.” Harry’s nerves fought the impulse to tense his muscles, curbed by habit not to react even as the information brought up images he rather wished he forgot.

_“Our systems just picked up one of NSY’s new logs. A detainee from Rowley Way registered with a set of NX-10R codes in his DNA sequence.”_

“…oh.”

_“You reported mission objectives completed in ‘58.”_

“I was not aware she had a child, Merlin,” Harry lied as smoothly as he could. He tried to brush away the memory of a little boy with smooth baby cheeks and wonderfully expressive green eyes. The body at his feet reminded him of another, more broken man.

There was a pause over the line. Harry’s lips flattened; the only overt expression of his mounting unease. Merlin knew him too well to not hear the fib in his too-flat tone.

He could lie as well as the next agent – string together enough patched truth to pass as an active member of off-world colonists, smuggle himself into any closed-linked business networks – but try as he might, his tricks were useless against a man who knew every scrap of contrivance ever used in the service of Kingsman. The baseline empathy tests had nothing on the resident wizard.

Harry would not count on a successful bluff against Merlin’s well practiced interactions with him.

His mind raced to come up with potential counters to any accusations the man might pin him for. All communications, regardless of its degree of inanity, were recorded on company servers. If Merlin voiced any hint of suspicion and he had no convincing response to offer, Harry had no doubt it would be brought to attention some time in his dismal-looking future.

Merlin sighed, weary. _“Time to meet the prodigal son, then.”_

The clench in his shoulders released, then tensed up again with a sinking weight in Harry’s stomach. He stared down the gaping hole in the slowly stiffening corpse. “…what are Arthur’s orders?”

 _“He hasn’t given any, seeing as he hasn’t been notified of this. Yet.”_ Merlin murmured, similarly hushed by the weight of the subterfuge. _“There is also the matter of the Harvest."_

“You’re not suggesting-”

 _“I’m not suggesting anything, Harry.”_ Merlin censored him. _“But I felt I should mention how this boy could comfortably qualify based on his birth, alone.”_

The mounting anxiety abated. “But-“

_“This could be an unexpected opportunity to study a subject raised beyond the pathologic scrutiny of our liaisons.”_

“Raised in the slums.”

_“The more extreme the divergence, the greater the observable results.”_

Harry had no response prepared for the unexpected twist. He might have agreed full-heartedly, a lifetime ago. Enthusiastically, even. He vaguely recalled an old, brief and curious thought of how the young boy could grow up, raised by a foster parent, pampered like the rest of his peers. Inconspicuously watched, groomed, and tested like the rest of his peers.

The world-wearier Harry felt a momentary flash of burning hate picturing photographs of the cherubic and innocent boy on the server archives, with endlessly documentations of iris refractions, weight, reaction time, nutritional plans-

Lee would have hated it. At the time, it was only his respect for Lee’s unfaltering resolve that gave him reason to turn from that temptation. The child’s misplaced name on a register would have been the only way the man was remembered, after all.

It seemed the name found its own way back to Kingsman despite the pains it took to stay beyond its reach.

Now, Harry wondered if he even felt a fraction of the Lee’s abject loathing for the organisations that made it all possible. Manufactured miracles notwithstanding, the conception of those miracles was still worth treasuring.

 _“Retrieve the boy, Galahad,”_ Merlin ordered, _“Bring the scion home.”_

**Author's Note:**

> Same question the 1982 Blade Runner ends with: so, is he or isn’t he?
> 
> “Replicant Union” came from the “Union” rebel forces of a futuristic world in Cloud Atlas (2014).  
> "Carnwennan" is the name of the pistol used by Kingsman agents in the films. It is named after a dagger used by King Arthur in the legends.
> 
> There are probably other things I ought to note, I just can't remember them right now.
> 
> Like it, hate it, think it's nonsense? Leave a comment to tell me your thoughts :)  
> Definitely tell me if I'm screwing up slang and UK geography. Most of them were from quick research on Google.


End file.
